


Craven

by heelofpatroclus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Mycroft, Contemplation, Embarrassed Mycroft, Gen, Greg isn't an idiot, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Romance, Spoilers, Texting, UST, Wikipedia explanation, dinner date, giant penguin, mystrade, pre-mystrade in some chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-11-03 11:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10966302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heelofpatroclus/pseuds/heelofpatroclus
Summary: Spoilers as set after S4E3. Series of one-shots and shorts of Mystrade-related head-canon set after Season 4. Basically character studies into Mycroft and Greg, and how Mycroft would be dealing with everything afterwards.





	1. Craven

**Author's Note:**

> This episode has taken a hold of my every waking minute, and it's just kind of driving me nuts. It also may be my favorite episode even if it isn't anyone else's. So, I'm writing a ton of stream of consciousness and head-canon and random bits of conversation and things. That's how this came about--filling in the pieces for what happened. It's the first time I've written in ages, except for work. Let me know what you think in the comments.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft steps off the helicopter from Sherrinford, only to find someone waiting for him.

Mycroft Holmes stepped off the helicopter, not a hair out of place. Although he was sporting a five-o’clock shadow, there were creases in his suit, and dark circles were easily visible under his eyes. He stepped off the helicopter with the ease of having done it many times before, smoothing the front of his suit coat as he stepped carefully away from it. No longer was he on the grounds of Sherrinford—he was only a car's drive away from his home. His left hand had a moments’ tremor as he stepped carefully away from the helicopter, keeping his head low against the blade above his head. In the harsh light of the police lights that flooded the grounds of his family’s old home—he had noted it ruefully when they were still aloft—the elder Holmes noticed a familiar mop of silver hair. And a hand from the same man was waving at him in attempt to beckon him closer.

“Detective Inspector,” he said carefully, approaching the other man with a slight wariness after the events of the previous few days. The buffeting of the helicopter blade as it slowed no longer masking too much of the sounds of the police, rescue team, and paramedics as they gathered evidence and performed their duties. Mycroft noted several of the faces were familiar from MI6, and his back straightened imperceptibly in response.

“Myc—err… Mr. Holmes.” Greg Lestrade said loudly as he looked over his shoulder a moment before taking a step closer to Mycroft and away from the fray behind him. His voice dropping quieter as he approached. Something felt wrong—he hadn’t heard much, but he knew that the Holmes brothers and John had been kidnapped by…the youngest Holmes? This didn’t seem like a man who’d just watched people die. “Why didn’t you tell me you have a sister? And a psycho one!?”

“My own parents believe her dead, Gregory. There is nothing to tell.”

“Bull—John’s half-frozen with hypothermia,” Mycroft frowned at this. “I’m hearing that there are at least five dead, and Sherlock’s driving everyone mad—well, that part’s normal. Anyway—what do you mean ‘there’s nothing to tell’?” The politician’s frown increased further, practically becoming a snarl when Greg reached out a hand to his shoulder. The DI’s hand faltered for a second before he made the decision to let his hand and the matter drop for a moment. “Do I need to get someone to look at you too?” Mycroft just glared at him. That made Greg smile at least. “I’m here as a favor to you guys—I can just haul you home if you’re uncooperative, you know. I bet your neighbors would enjoy the sight of you being _escorted home in handcuffs_.” He emphasized his point with a teasing wag of his eyebrows.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Mycroft hissed, finally taking a step into Greg’s personal space, so as be able to speak quietly and assure that no one heard their conversation. He never spoke about more than his brother at work, and only when required at that, so he wasn’t about to have anyone take notice of him at this point and start asking questions.

The detective inspector gave him a confident grin as he reached into his pocket to pull out the silver cuffs. “If it means you get checked out like you’re s’posed to—it’d be rather fun anyway.” He pocketed the cuffs again. “Wouldn’t have to worry about you going off to Bali on some ‘emergency trip’. Or you locking yourself in your office for ages on my only day off in two weeks because you’re embarrassed about some unnoticeable flaw.” Greg finally bridged the gap between them with a quick step, clapping his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders in a friendly gesture. However, he took the moment he had to give a quick kiss to the juncture between ear and jaw and whisper, “Your ears are red, you know.” His breath huffed hotly against the side of the elder Holmes’ face, making his redden ever slightly more.

Mycroft’s face went from almost an ashen pale to bright red in a matter of moments. He shrugged off Greg’s hand, turning around like a viper ready to strike. “You would point out another weakness at this time, Gregory?” Greg didn’t recoil, if only because he had been trying to push Mycroft out of whatever icy stupor he’d put himself in. “If you’d prefer, I could go find—“

“Settle down, Mycroft.” Both Greg’s hands were in front of him in a placating manner now. “I wasn’t trying to upset you… you just looked stuck in your head.” One of the hands went gently to Mycroft’s closest shoulder, and Greg’s tone was soft. He spoke even quieter as he continued, slightly shifting so as to stand as close as he could while still looking casual. “You don’t look like you can take another fight with yourself. Plus, if you’re this tightly wound, you’ll eventually snap at someone you don’t want to…” He let the threat of Mycroft losing control of his carefully-crafted façade remain the unspoken explanation.

The politician bristled a bit, but he didn’t move away this time. “Sherlock simply should have taken the shot. After all I’ve put them all through.” Greg frowned and squeezed the hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, but didn’t say anything in hopes that Mycroft would continue. “If I had been…smarter, stronger, more capable, then this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You’re one man—you can’t control everything.”

A snort was the only response that Mycroft gave. Tension and nerves lay raw at the surface, but there was still a mask of impassivity on top of everything. Slowly, he was pulling the angst and anguish back underneath. He needed the icy exterior to keep everyone at arm’s length and give him the space to think—to review everything and respond accordingly. At another squeeze on the shoulder from Lestrade, Mycroft finally responded. “Maybe not if you’re a go—normal person, but…”

“No ‘but’ anything, Mycroft Holmes. You’re only human—” Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, and Greg squeezed his shoulder tightly for a moment. “ _You are human_.” The last bit was hardly a whisper. “Everything’s just a bit shaken up right now, yeah?” The only response was a slight narrowing of blue-grey eyes. Greg cleared his throat before continuing in his usual tone. “Now do I have to take you home myself, or can I have one of my sergeants take you?”

“Actually, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” a woman’s voice startled both men, and when Greg looked behind him, he saw a shorter blonde woman walking towards them. “He will be coming with me to Whitehall. There is rather much to discuss after this… incident.”

Mycroft’s back straightened and he took a small side-step away from Greg, shaking off the now loose hand on his shoulder. “Lady Smallwood,” he inclined his head politely. “Of course—it’s only appropriate to… debrief when the incident is fresh in the mind—Memos to be written, reports to fill out.” Greg looked between the two, schooling his face into the best ‘stern, yet concerned DI’ as the entire situation felt different now, almost predatory. “I thank you for your concern for my brother and his well-being.” The woman looked suspiciously between the two, raising an eyebrow before stepping into stride with Mycroft as he walked back towards the fray and her waiting town car.

 _‘Wonder if that’s the dragon lady he mentions sometimes…’_ Greg thought with a shrug, going to find Sherlock and John and make sure they hadn’t been caught up in some unspeakable evil in the time he wasn’t watching them.


	2. Pot Meet Kettle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft without access to his town cars and NSY less than half a mile away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't noticed, I'm American. I'm trying to make things sound appropriate, but some things will escape my notice, and I'm spelling it my normal way if it sounds the same in my head. Also, I tend to appropriate idiomatic phrases I like, so yeah...I know 5 languages in various capabilities, and borrow from them all.
> 
> Also, these don't necessarily have continuity with each other. I'm basing this habit on TheDah's one-shots for the RK fandom as well as other one-shot series I read. This chapter is actually the 3rd I've written, whereas the 1st chapter was the 2nd written, and the 3rd chapter will be the 1st one I wrote.
> 
> I think I'm starting to understand that whole programmatic thing we talked about so much in college...Let me know if there's an issue. I'm using these as writing practice as I work too much and need something to do other than read and watch youtube.

_[08:47] I rather need a ride. Are you at the yard? M_  
[08:49] …yeah? Do I want tovknow whats going on myctoft?  
[08:50] And im too old for helping Sherlock in yhe middle of the night anymore… not enough coffee in thw world for these reports

 

His third bloody cup of coffee in an hour, and still he wanted to keel over onto his desk and sleep. The detective inspector had said the _last_ time something had happened it was the last time he was helping off the clock. Greg had lost count of the number of ‘last times’ by now. He was supposed to be working on reports, especially on last night, but he’d made it back to the office by three o’clock, and after writing the notes on what had happened, he didn’t care about reports.

However, he _had_ been able to add to his notes on what all he’d done ‘above and beyond the call of duty’ the next time his boss asked why they were so far over budget. _‘And for leverage_ _again against whatever scheme Mycroft has next…’_ Greg had put the note back in a file filled with the most boring tripe he had to keep as a defense against _nosy bastards_. He grinned to himself at the thought of Sherlock or one of Mycroft’s goons rooting around through those papers.

He’d managed a few hours of sleep at his desk, Sally waking him up before someone else found him—it still looked bad if he was found asleep on the job, even if it was seven in the morning and he’d been up all night managing the Holmes family. In addition, work coffee was horrible—burnt, bitter, and boiled—he’d been drinking it so long that he’d almost forgotten it could taste appetizing.

The door to his office opened without anyone knocking, something that never meant good news. Greg looked up from whatever report he hadn’t been focusing on, and found an especially scraggly-looking Mycroft haunting his doorway. The politician bore a scowl that looked almost etched on his face, taut shoulders, and a prominent shadow of beard growing-in. He almost looked like a different person.

“About that ride, Gregory?” The ever-present umbrella was held protectively in front of him, but his expression softened a little as he took a breath. “I believe my last act before they confirmed my ‘administrative leave’ –and cut my access—was to have Anthea make sure a two-week leave was approved for you.”

“If I wasn’t so bloody tired, I’d be yelling at you for messing about in _my_ work again, Myc.” Greg’s voice was quiet, but there was a gravelly edge to it, making the words sound harsher than he meant. “Now close the door before everyone on the floor is bloody listening _again_.” He cleared his throat, barely glancing at the window into the main office as he raised his voice. “Also, anyone caught listening gets their number given to Sherlock.” A pencil snapping seemed to come from out in the main office space. Mycroft quietly shut the door behind him, shaking his head a little as he cast a quick glance out at the people in the main office.

Greg rubbed at his eyes, not bothering to look back up at the other man, but looking back to the paperwork when he reached for his pen again. “So, exactly how am I getting time off when I’m buried in work?” He casually gestured to the files stacked on his desk. “Murder doesn’t stop just because I’m on holiday.”

“I solved the pertinent cases after my… debriefing with Lady Smallwood, and emailed your supervisor the results. Your staff should be able to put together the appropriate dots and dashes on the forms to get the prosecutions going while you’re away.” The umbrella clacked on the floor as it bounced a little when he shifted from one leg to the other.

The silver-haired inspector leaned back in his chair, ignoring everything in front of him to give a tired, bleary-eyed glare to Mycroft in front of him. “You say that as if it only took you fifteen minutes to solve multiple murders!”

“Less than seven actu—“ The words had slipped from Mycroft’s mouth before he had managed to stop himself. Showing-off was supposed to be _Sherlock’s_ thing. Apparently, lack of sleep and the stress from the past few days had affected him more than he thought. “Well, what matters is that they’re solved. Justice and closure and all.”

And Greg’s left hand went back to rubbing at his eyes, but this time he was reaching into his desk with his other hand for something. He pulled out a small white bottle and popped the cap open easily before shaking out three pills into his hand. “We should just have you two handle the crime-fighting, and no one would need a job anymore.”

Mycroft’s face tightened into a constricted smile. “I have no love of field work, Gregory. It just needed to be done—“ he punctuated that with a tap of his umbrella against the floor. “You’re exhausted and in no shape to bring anyone to justice.”

“Says Mister Pot.” Greg replied, gulping down the pills dry before frowning at himself a moment later as he reached for his coffee cup to drink the last of his now cold coffee to get them down.

“You may harangue me later. Now, I would simply like to return home. And given my lack of transportation—” Mycroft gestured vaguely with his right hand.

“Fine, but only because I’m too tired to think anymore.” Lestrade stood up, pushing a button to shut off the computer. “Hey, what about that fancy town car you always kidnap people in?”

Mycroft drew his shoulders up and straightened his back before he spoke, voice rather pinched and annoyed when he did. “As it is a perk of my _minor_ position…it is… unavailable to me during my ‘administrative leave’.”

A wolfish grin lit up Greg’s brown eyes. “So, I’m adding this to my list of favors you owe me.”

“Only if I am dictating the terms of these _favors_.”


	3. Elephant Tranquilizers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood, blood everywhere... and elephant tranquilizers to spare?

Blood was everywhere—staining his skin, smearing on his hands as he tried to staunch the wound instinctively, soaking into the back of his suit and jacket from the exit wound. He had told Sherlock to shoot him, and Sherlock had done it. Their sister hated him so much she was joyous at Sherlock doing just what Jim thought he would.

The smell of the powder made everything that much worse, but the soft snuffles of Sherlock were what brought him the most pain. Sibling rivalry, and “arch nemesis” status aside, Mycroft was _always_ there for Sherlock—regardless of whether he wanted him there. His own pain was locked away deep in his mind, compartmentalized to give him presence of mind to the end. He’d lose blood volume to the point that he lost consciousness before his heart stopped. He couldn’t say what he wanted to comfort his younger brother because there was nothing to say—Sherlock had done the right thing. John Watson would be able to _complete_ Sherlock in whatever form that took. Mycroft’s mind told him that he had done the honorable thing and saved John Watson.

When he finally tried to reach out to Sherlock, his arm wouldn’t respond because it felt made of tungsten, and his words only came out as a garble of blood when he tried to whisper. Every second made it harder to breathe, and the world was greyer as his eyes dimmed. Mycroft closed his eyes and decided that this would be his come-uppance for all the bad things. The retribution that would make everyone happy—the world may not have as much reason, but his blood and death would absolve him of the many things he had done wrong. Maybe Sherlock would forgive—

A hand was shaking his shoulder as Mycroft’s his eyes shot open in response. However, his mind was sluggish, and the world slowly filtered back into focus, and a pair of brown eyes were staring back at him. He clutched a hand to his chest, almost expecting the hand to come away bloody. His chest even hurt. But when Mycroft looked down at his hand, there was no blood. A hand ran through his field of vision, and it took a moment for his eyes to follow them back to the detective inspector, who was looking rather irritable and bleary-eyed. They were in his bed, Gregory was in his usual ratty tank top, Sherlock hadn’t shot him, and he had been hogging covers again—wait, Gregory was _talking_ to him now as well.

“—been kidnapped, I’d slug you for worrying me...” A puzzled frown came over Mycroft’s face as he tried to think of when Gregory had come over since Eurus— “Oh for god’s sake, I can’t stand it anymore—you’re like a zombie whenever you take them. I’m throwing out those pills this time.”

And the brown eyes were off in a blur. His mind felt like it was stuck in syrup, and things just weren’t connecting as they ought, nor as fast. ‘ _Maybe this is how the world lives_.’ He thought, rather detached. Looking aside at the clock on the wall, the hands showed it was 7:35, too early for him to be sleeping if it was evening, so morning.

“’Re you sure these aren’t elephant tranquilizers?” Greg’s voice yelled from the adjoining bathroom, drawing Mycroft out of his reverie. Elephant tranquilizers, sedatives, molasses…oh, his sleeping medication. He brought a hand up to rub at his eyes as a headache was forming behind his temples.

The toilet flushed, but no following sound of water came from the sink. Gregory was walking back out a moment late, a satisfied look on his face. “No more elephant tranquilizers, Mycroft.”

Wheels spinning, spinning, and then it clicked. “As an officer of the law—you know how irresponsible it is to flush medication! And my sleeping medication!”

“I don’t give a damn about that—do I look like some engineer? And I don’t know who you blackmailed for that dose, but they’re elephant tranquilizers not ‘medication’, by my reckoning.” His hands curled into air quotes as he pinned Mycroft with a stern look.

“It takes a larger dose than for me than…” Mycroft stopped before he said ‘normal simpletons’, “to calm my mind. Especially with what happened… with Eurus.” An image came to mind for a brief moment in Mycroft’s mind, one of him paranoid and nauseated and guilty and throwing up on Greg’s shoes at the thought of the three Garrideb corpses being eaten by fishes. His stomach churned a little at the mental image. “Something must have… occurred last night that I would feel the need to…indulge in a supportive medicinal.”

“Apart from thinking I’d been ‘programmed’ by your sister and throwing up on my last pair of clean shoes – thanks for that, by the way, I’d just broken them in right to – no, not much. Still think I should have Anderson around for a drugs bust.” The detective inspector was close enough to the bed for Mycroft to hear the low chuckle in his voice. “I know, my boss’d be calling before Anderson’d get here to tell me to ‘cut the bullshit before I get chewed a new one _again_ ’.” He frowned a little when Mycroft just looked up at him with a small scowl on his face. “You’re a hard nut to crack, Mycroft Holmes.”

The scowl intensified. “Would it make you feel better to know that Sherlock told me to ‘take care of’ you—in those exact words?”

This time, Mycroft just laid back and covered his face with a pillow. ‘ _Melodramatic bastard_.’ Greg sighed to himself.

The bed dipped on the left side as Greg crawled back into his spot on the left side of the bed and leaned over so their faces were inches apart, only separated by the pillow. “This’d be a lot funnier if you just didn’t get the joke, you know.”

Mycroft’s arms tightened around the pillow as the detective inspector tried to wrest it away from him.

“It’s not the end of the world,” Greg said, biting the inside of his cheek at the thought of Mycroft embarrassed. “He’s gotta know something’s going on, or he wouldn’t have said it that way. Though at this rate,” for a second, Greg was thoughtful-sounding. “I’ll get a snide comment about sex next. He seems to have a thing for doing that rather than doing it himself.”

This time, Greg got a snort from the pillow. That spurred him on. “You should have heard Donovan going on for ages about how dare he make her affair public and ruin the fun. Or every time he teases Molly for trying to flirt with him or do something _nice_.”

Whatever had been muttered in the pillow wasn’t intelligible, but it made Greg smile more regardless, spurring him on further.

“Just imagine the next time he’s mad at me—or you—“ he covered his mouth with his hand for a moment, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “There’d probably be some imperceptible mark that only he’d notice and point out, or that your tie isn’t tied as tightly as you usually keep it.” Greg looked down at the bed to his left before continuing. “Oh, and he doesn’t like overdoing his ‘deductions’ or else everyone ignores him, so he wouldn’t mention my smelling like your cologne. I oughta bathe in the stuff before I call him in next time, just to see his face.”

“You will not – it costs a fortune an ounce.” Mycroft had moved the pillow just enough to be able to talk without being completely muffled. “Though for Sherlock to pick up on it, not much would be necessary.” He groaned after a moment. “I am not inviting my brother to play games with you – or _us_ , as you so often request reference.”

“But, if it pulls you out of your self-deprecating humors, you bet I will.” Greg rolled over to lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. “Maybe keeping her hidden away without reinforcements and safe-guards against human error was wrong, but you were a kid when she was… locked away. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I refuse to argue with you on my guilt.”

“Tough. Think of me as the backup you’ve always needed and never wanted.”

For a moment, the bedroom was silent before Mycroft peeked an eye out at Greg. “Should you feel the need to make a comparison that places you in the role of John Watson while… in bed… ever again, you will be finding yourself on the couch… or in _your_ apartment, lest I have the presence of mind to throttle you.” With that, he rolled on his side and faced away from the detective inspector, closing his eyes and moving the pillow underneath his head – the nightmare long forgotten.

The deeper issue would be something to settle another time, Greg decided. _‘Like when I’ve got him so knackered that he isn’t comparing most all of humanity to goldfish.’_ Lestrade smiled to himself at the thought and pulled the blanket over his head, more than happy to go back to sleep himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I made up the 'elephant tranquilizers' for the sake of propriety, and because I don't think mental capacity / speed has anything to do with how they work... since the Holmeses are special, they get special medication... technically, it's based off a mix of a couple things.
> 
> It's bad that all the words I used for pretentiousness' sake needed no help to come to me... my Latin Composition teacher would have been proud. And one of my (engineer) professors visited a Scottish waste treatment plant for fun while on vacation, so I had to make mention.
> 
> Also, hopefully this came out okay. It was the first I'd written, and I've gone through and cleaned up some of the diction and phrasing and grammer differences, but it's a bit different dynamic than the other two chapters. I just loved writing it too much. Especially the first part because I keep watching episode three going 'dude, emotional trauma... major!'


	4. Self-Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rather depressing look at Mycroft reflecting on some of his life...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I upped the rating to T because of the implications of this chapter. It's based upon what we were told in Season 4 -- they had to have researched this at least a bit, as it matched the academic literature I was reading into the psychopathology. I have odd hobbies. So, just as a warning if the stuff in episode 3 bothered you content-wise, it may bother you here. I have based it on actual case studies that I read.
> 
> Anyway, the style is 1st person as my writing prompt book had one where you start it off with "no one ever said" and wrote from the character's point of view. This is kind of a bonus as I twisted the prompt, and it turned into this. I already have a less depressing one written.
> 
> The joys of vacation from work and spending it in seclusion in the park. Let me know what you think as this is writing practice for me.

No one ever said I was a cute little boy. I was always the chubby one, the _remarkable_ one, the fussy one… and then Sherlock came along, and I was the elder one. The one with the responsibility. The one that had to put myself above my feelings and do the right thing for Sherlock. And then Eurus came. After that, I was the eldest child. The one charged with the care and nurturing of the two younger when we weren’t directly supervised. Eurus could do no wrong in our parents’ eyes.

As a baby, she was so quiet, just seeming to watch the world or stare off into her own. She cried and whined like other babies, but not as much, and only when she needed something. Never for affection. Then, by the time she was two, she was biting, kicking, hitting. Nothing shamed her – no punishment our parents could imagine would tame her desire to have her way or do harm. Then, she tried to strangle me because I didn’t deserve to be part of the family. She was Sherlock’s shadow, and my doppelganger – trying to take my place in the family and snuff me out. Eventually, Sherlock’s friend Victor disappeared because of her actions. Only after Sherlock figured out her riddle some thirty-five years late that we found his body in a well that had been abandoned decades before we were even born because of some impurity in the water.

Uncle Rudy was called, rather than the police – he took care of messes such as this. A large settlement was paid to the family for the loss of their son. Sherlock was inconsolable. Eurus had set smaller fires in the brush and the woods, claiming to want to see what happened. She had even tried to set Sherlock’s hair on fire. Finally, when we were all asleep, she set the house on fire. I had intense allergies and was always taking anti-histamines in the country, so to be able to sleep peacefully. I didn’t climb trees, and I was terrified by heights.

By the time that I managed to wake after she set the fire, my bedroom was inescapable. Smoke was coming under the door. At first I screamed and shouted for help, staying low against the rising smoke and hiding in my closet in hopes that would buy me more time. Then, I realized that no one would be able to reach me in time would be to jump from my window on the second floor – not a long jump in hindsight, but utterly terrifying as a child.

Needless to say, I made it out. Everyone made it out alive, but we all watched as the firemen moved to put it out as it burned to ruins in front of us. I watched Eurus’ face as she clung to Sherlock’s arm – apparently, he’d smelled the smoke and got her out as she wandered around the house with a key, locking the doors – there was no fear in her eyes, no remorse. My father had knelt beside her and asked why she had done such a horrible thing.

All she said was “I wanted you to die.” Uncle Rudy had whisked her away in a black car that night, whispering something to my parents about psychiatric care. Until I was an adult, I believed the lie that he told everyone – that she had set another fire and killed herself and those in the facility. There had been a fire, but only corpses were burnt to cinders. She was placed in a secure facility that I was made aware of after I entered into a _very minor_ position in the British government.

I agreed to keep the secret after he showed me the footage. My parents couldn’t know what their daughter had become. She was my responsibility alone after Uncle Rudy had passed. None of that mattered after my parents discovered her continuing existence because of Sherlock. He was the one that always came out angelic, an adult, and I was their only disappointment.

No one ever said it wasn’t my fault either.


	5. Reel and Lure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's world is set to rights, and everything's back to normal when he receives a package.

Sherlock had never apologized for ruining the film he had used to force Mycroft’s hand on Eurus—nor for disabling his home security, nor for nearly ruining a perfectly good portrait. The security company had come to fix the system, and the painting had been sent to his restorer. Overall, the house had been returned to order, his life was back to normal, and there had even been very little knocking down of his door. Life was more cerebral and less messy again, and it had been several months since someone had tried to kill him—so, life was looking up.

But the film was something that was irreplaceable. It had been an unfinished American film made during the censorship of Hollywood films—it had never been officially released as it was ‘too racy’ for viewers per the censorship board. However, much as the original version of _The Maltese Falcon_ has been circulated today due to the rise of the ratings system and decline of censorship, though this film was never completed, so this film had gained a small, loyal audience. Mycroft’s was one of the few copies remaining—and only on delicate, degrading celluloid film.

It would cost a fortune for his contact to find another copy, if there was one. However, he couldn’t bring himself to throw out the reel, especially not with the fragment of the family video. There was something carefree about that day at the beach, and he hadn’t been carefree in many years.

‘ _Caring is not an advantage…_ ’ The words rang in his head, incriminating him yet again from the depths of his own mind. Yet, he still believed them correct. Caring is a liability, a weakness, an emotional maelstrom, just as love is a sickness. Connections are only useful when they can be severed when necessary, otherwise they distract from the bigger picture. There had been those that said his view was overly simplistic and cynical. He had ignored them.

It was the buzz of his phone vibrating that jolted him out of the ever-darkening thoughts.

He opened it to find a text from Gregory—oh, wait—Sherlock from Gregory’s phone.

[21:12] Respond to confirm your vitality and wellness, or I shall be forced to sick John upon you for medical care. SH  
[21:14] NVM, I can attest to your… vitality from these texts. It would seem we need to… chat or something. SH  
[21:17] Sorry. Didnt think before giving him my phone G

Mycroft pocketed the phone without a reply.

A pang of anxiety shot through him as he walked the stairs to his bedroom to pack for the trip to Thailand the next day. He didn’t have time to manage international geopolitics and Sherlock when the world was so complicated at the moment. Sherlock always had a way of finding things out, whether someone gave them permission, unlocked their electronic device, or just stole things in his quest. The politician hoped that several of the more _licentious_ texts he’d sent en route after having to break meeting plans yesterday for some long, dull ‘emergency meeting’ weren’t what Sherlock had been referring to in the text.

The meetings in Thailand were nothing more than a distraction from wondering what would pop out around the next dark corner and the overwhelming sense of unease he carried around like a great weight around his neck. He didn’t feel confident in the security outside the embassy. So, he wasn’t able to send more than casual texts or emails for fear of being intercepted and misused. Sherlock never responded to an email, so he didn’t send one. Greg’s were distracted and distant—apparently, he had been tasked with babysitting Sherlock on some case before an officer throttled him.

So, when he was finally back on British soil, three days after he left, the elder Holmes breathed a sigh of relief as the plane touched down on the tarmac. He took his phone off of ‘airplane mode’ almost immediately and texted Anthea that they were taxiing. Then, he texted Lestrade that he was on the ground.

By the time he walked himself and his carry-on off the plane, there was a town-car waiting for him at the exit, and Anthea stood next to it, barely glancing up from her phone as he approached. She opened the door for him with only a nod in greeting, and Mycroft slid into the back of the car.

On the right side of the car, in the shadow between the floor of the back and the seat, there lay a package. Anthea gave him a knowing smile when he raised an eyebrow at her, cocking his head back towards it suspiciously. He picked it up after she slid in next to him, barely looking up from her phone.

It was a large, heavy package, rectangular and covered in a striped, teal blue and dark grey wrapping paper. A yellow bow sat atop it, along with a small tag that read ‘He’s sorry’ in spidery-scrawl. Carefully, he unwrapped the thing.

After carefully removing and neatly folding the wrapping paper before setting it aside on the seat, Mycroft found a clear, hard-shell case with a large and small boxes inside. They were both black, round, and looked to be made of plastic. A note was attached to the top—this time it was Sherlock’s scrawling handwriting.

_Mycroft, enclosed is a clean copy of the film that was ruined. Also, given your lamentations to Greg—yes, I know his name—I convinced Mummy to let me borrow the old film again. Make sure to give it back before Christmas—you know how she hates the tapes out of her care. Do make sure not to set them alight with a cigarette._

Anthea watched as Mycroft carefully removed the tape from the note and tucked it in the case before lifting out the larger film reel. His face practically glowed as he turned the large case in his hands for just a moment before his usual dour expression came back over him. Although she kept her focus on her phone, Mycroft’s assistant used her peripheral vision to watch him as she texted the contact marked ‘DI L.’. She gave a small, self-satisfied smile when the politician wasn’t looking.

[10:34] Package received – en route now

Five minutes later, she was skimming emails to mark out the important ones and deleting the trash when a response came through.

[10:39] Perfect :)

Days like this, Anthea wished that she could get a bonus at times like this. It wasn’t often that she was able to meddle in Mycroft’s personal affairs, but she did occasionally as someone had to keep an eye on him.

This year, Mycroft wouldn’t be able to ignore his birthday. A certain detective inspector was lying in wait to snatch him from away work. She had already rescheduled his meetings for the next two days, and made sure that Sherlock was off galivanting on some wild goose-chase for the first day. The next day, she had arranged for Doctor Watson to shuffle him into a town car and meet the two men for a nice lunch at an out-of-the-way cafe.

As she glanced out the window, Anthea sighed. She’d have to ask for a raise when Mycroft returned to the office. It’d be the perfect time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... an attempt at a happier chapter. I saw the scene they'd styled after a film noir, and it reminded me of the original film version of "The Maltese Falcon". The first time I watched episode 3, I put in my notes "OMG, Mycroft watches detective porn!" and burst out laughing...
> 
> Keywords for next chapter: penguin suit, Rosie, and laptop
> 
> (If you have anything you'd like to see, let me know. It turns out that I like prompt ideas.)


	6. A Break and a Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A giant penguin showed up at the Diogenes Club – whatever could he want?

“Explain to me again why they let you in.”

Mycroft looked up from his laptop, peering at the face of Sherlock looking out at him from a giant penguin suit. They were standing in the Stranger’s Room in the Diogenes Club, which Mycroft seemed fond of using as an office-away-from office, and Sherlock was wearing clownishly-thick make-up. The politician took a deep breath, smoothing his hair back unconsciously before leaning back in his chair to one side.

Sherlock almost looked please with himself. “They remembered what happened the _last time_ they didn’t.”

“That’s what you said the first time I asked, and it does not give any more insight into ‘what happened’ previously, as you so obtusely put it.”

“Wouldn’t that insinuate that I don’t _intend_ to tell you of last time, then?”

“Just tell me what led to you barging into the sanctity of my privacy. I am very busy, after all.” Sherlock snorted in response, leading to a frown from Mycroft. “Sherlock…”

“Fine—Rosie fell off the slide at the park and broke her arm.” He nodded seriously from his place in the penguin suit, as if that one sentence would explain everything, but there was no child accompanying him, and Mycroft didn’t know exactly what Sherlock as a penguin would have to do with it regardless. The right flipper came up for Sherlock to scratch at his nose. Mycroft was quickly taking another sip of the glass of whiskey to steady his irritation before he made any snide comments.

“And this explains what…exactly?”

“John was mad and said it was my fault. Rosie was crying because he was angry, and Mrs. Hudson shorted out the apartment again when she plugged in the toaster.”

“Pray, continue…” Mycroft had returned to looking at his laptop, trying to not glance at the spectacle that was ‘The Great Detective’ as he continued his insane story. An irritated huff from Sherlock, but the politician didn’t look up at him as he typed away at the keyboard. So, when Mycroft cleared his throat finally, Sherlock continued.

“Thus, John went to get new fuses again – the wiring just isn’t as good as the original.”

“The original wiring was a fire hazard… don’t tell me that a… toaster was why your electric bill was enough to power the entire block for the month?”

“No, I was trying to find the optimal temperature for melting the fat of a –“

“Do stop on that line of explanation before I am forced to have your entire flat decontaminated.” Mycroft’s face was a little paler than it had been before, and Sherlock seemed to swell a bit at turning his brother’s stomach, but he made an annoyed sound anyway.

“Fine—spoilsport. Anyway, so Rosie was missing her favorite show on the telly about this penguin, and she was crying and trying to throw her rattle and—“

“Get to the reason you are here—wasting my precious time—In the penguin suit.”

The words came out of Sherlock in a rush, as though he didn’t actually want to say it. “John refuses to help me with the zipper, Lestrade hung up on me, Molly is visiting her mother in Dorset, and Mrs. Hudson is off shopping with Mrs. Turner. You’re my last hope.”

“And you couldn’t just call and ask me over?”

This time both of Sherlock’s flippers crossed over his chest. “I didn’t want you to frighten Rosie again. Your face just _terrifies_ her.” His tone was deep and serious, but his eyes were shining with mirth. His face was crooked up in a half-smile. Mycroft looked less than impressed. Then, he furrowed his brow and pulled out his phone, looking at his phone before pushing a button on it and held up a finger at Sherlock for silence.

“…Yes?” Mycroft spoke in clipped tones into the phone. Sherlock just tapped a large orange flipper impatiently. “I am in a rather…urgent meeting at present…can I call you back?” Another pause, and Mycroft’s face grew pensive as he glanced askance at Sherlock. “Ah, that would be fine, thank you.”

He took the phone away from his ear, pushing a button to end the call with his thumb as he brought the hand he had been holding at Sherlock back to his laptop. After he pocketed the phone, he tapped at his laptop a few times, biting his lip a moment. Then, his laptop made a ‘ping’ sound.

“Is something the matter?”

The color had returned to Mycroft’s face, but his expression was as stern as ever. “…We’ll know in a moment.”

“Is it to do with your call?”

“Hmm?” Pale eyes shifted to look at the penguin a moment, and the politician was biting his lip again. “…Oh, yes. Everything.” And then, suddenly, Mycroft spun the laptop around so that Sherlock could see the screen.

A picture of Sherlock was on it, in the penguin suit and a sour look on his face. He was standing in the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes Club, and the photograph looked as though it had been taken from the desk that Mycroft was sitting behind—and look, apparently, Anderson had a page dedicated to the fan club meetings online. Sherlock’s face seemed to look as though he had just drunk curdled milk at that point.

Mycroft’s expression had entirely changed. Now he was the one smiling at Sherlock, who was outright glaring at the laptop.

“Remember that for the next time you… ah,” he chuckled to himself as he paused to think a moment. “Oh, yes, ‘stop paying attention to’ Doctor Watson’s daughter while you’re at the playground with her. Or decide to make rude observations at a crime scene, apparently.”

“Are you going to help me with the zipper or not?”

“After we march you back to Baker Street, I think. I could use the additional good will with the Ministry of Defense. Rather nasty negotiations on funding coming up.” Mycroft easily stood up, tucking the laptop into his briefcase before grabbing his umbrella.

“There was no phone call, was there?”

“There was… simply before you arrived. Doctor Watson asked a favor on behalf of… well, it’s a rather long list.” A rather condescending smile appeared on Mycroft’s face as he stood in front of Sherlock, ever so slightly looking down his nose at his little brother. “We don’t want to be here all afternoon, do we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My attempt at humor. No idea if it worked, but I think it's funny at least. I was trying to think of something that was silly, and I thought of Sherlock in a penguin suit, and it grew from there. Also, I totally made up the TV show to suit my purposes.


	7. The Holmesian Method of Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlock and Mycroft play Operation in 'The Empty Hearse' and Sherlock lets Greg know he's alive, Mycroft sends a town car for Greg. What could they possibly have to talk about? (Pre-mystrade in my head-canon, fyi.)

“You fucking knew—how could you never give me even a hint that he wasn’t dead!? Not that you talked to me, but still!” Greg was yelling at air in an empty warehouse, whirling around at every sound that echoed throughout the building as he yelled and fumed.

He’d been kidnapped by Mycroft Holmes and a town car as he did sometimes, though only twice after Sherlock had “died”, but no one had been waiting for him this time. It was odd, and after the shock that he’d had finding out that Sherlock was _alive_ —

‘ _Good god, I’m never going to hear the end of this from Anderson.’_ He huffed to himself.

Greg just needed to vent some of the pent-up emotions before he beat them out. “Mycroft, come out, damn it!” The policeman yelled, feeling like an idiot. Now, he was staring at the floor, trying to find some evidence that the elder Holmes brother was here and not just playing around.

A few moments of silence later, before Lestrade could start yelling again, he heard a heavy sigh and approaching footsteps. The seeming calm with which the footsteps were approaching set his temper alight, and he was yelling before he even knew what he was doing. The familiarity of the umbrella, the sharp line of the coat, and the utter poshness of the tan suit made Lestrade see red. He was rushing at Mycroft the moment the other man had stepped out of the shadow and into the center of the warehouse. “You—you—bastard!”

Before Mycroft could even respond, Lestrade was within arm’s reach and had him by the collar of his coat and hoisting him just off the ground. “You left us to figure out that Richard Brooks was all a ruse! That Sherlock hadn’t done anything wrong! And you let me think it was my—” Lestrade’s eyes widened. He stopped yelling at the sound of the umbrella hitting the ground loudly and suddenly _saw_ Mycroft’s face through the haze of anger.

The freckles on Mycroft’s face stood out as the blood drained out of his face from shock. Immediately, the elder Holmes was trying to wrench the other man’s hands off his coat and get some space. Greg let go of Mycroft like a man burned when their hands met, the burning fury of angry drawing back off him like a veil. Mycroft smooth down the front of his coat, taking a step backwards. He knelt to retrieve his umbrella and cleared his throat before he spoke.

The politician was still pale, but otherwise, his face was a bland mask of indifference. “It was a necessary precaution. Moriarty’s…network was more like a hydra than a spider’s web.”

“And I’m not trustworthy, all of the sudden?” Greg ran a hand through his greying hair, trying to cool his head with the action rather than smooth the hair. “I’m good enough to keep him busy and keep an eye on him, but not good enough to actually be trusted with the important stuff? Is that it?”

Mycroft shifted the umbrella so he grasped the handle with both hands in front of him almost like a shield. “No, it was a very…complex situation. We couldn’t take the chance that your team had been… compromised.”

“Compromised? Compromised! You think I can’t—“ Greg’s voice echoed in the empty warehouse as he yelled.

“Detective Inspector, I can assure you,” Mycroft’s words were measured and quiet, surprising Greg. Only for a second, Greg thought he saw a spark of emotion, of the mask slipping, but whatever emotion had passed over Mycroft’s face had passed before Greg understood what it was. “This was not done for any other reason than to protect _all_ parties involved. There was an assassin on you, as well as others, and it was paramount that we not take chances with the network being… made aware of our counterstrike.”

“Still—“ Lestrade’s anger seemed to be deflating like a balloon with a slow leak, and Mycroft could almost watch the wheels of the other man’s mind spinning to try and respond to what Mycroft was saying.

The mask Mycroft used when dealing with difficult negotiations fell into place, and the politician felt like he had control of the conversation again. This he knew how to deal with, and he was able to cut off the policeman’s tirade before the man could boil over with anger and lead their conversation in a dangerously emotional direction again.

“If you had known, the game would have been over before it began. It was of the utmost importance that you remain in the dark, and clear Sherlock’s name simply because you _believed_ in him, rather than…” He trailed off purposefully, planting a small smile upon his face in hopes of encouraging Greg to finish the thought himself. It would be better than whatever he could say, for sure.

It seemed as though Mycroft’s plan had worked for a minute, the tension continuing to drain out of Lestrade’s face. However, the intense expression that stared back at the politician was resolute and aflame, but not the crazed intensity as it had been earlier. “I’ve been a copper a long time,” he folded his hands over his chest, tilting his head with a frown at Mycroft. “And spent entirely too much time with Sherlock—so, cut the bullshit.”

Mycroft was almost a little surprised, and Greg took his chance to continue. “You shouldn’t ‘ave kept me out of the loop, damn it! You aren’t going to placate me with some of your fancy bullshit. Do you know how guilty I was to have let him _do_ that? Or how _broken_ John was? Do you even care?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to retort ‘of course I care’, but his mind wouldn’t let the words be spoken. He didn’t know if it was because the words weren’t true, or if he just couldn’t handle that much sentiment. “I…It wasn’t about caring. There was much more at stake.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed at Mycroft, but slowly he moved his arms down to rest in his coat pockets. “Yeah? Sounds like an excuse, Mycroft.” Now, Greg’s voice was the one that was low and steady. “You owe me—and you _really_ owe John an apology.” The right side of his face crooked up in a half-smile. “I’d really like to punch you right now, just so you know.”

“I’m afraid you’re not the first to hold that sentiment—join the queue. I’d imagine it’s rather long by now.”

“Just snap me a photo if someone actually does it, and I’ll get out of it.” This time a real smile appeared on Greg’s face. “Err…” he looked around all of the sudden at the warehouse as if looking at it for the first time, realizing that he had been brought here and not the other way around. “was there a reason you kidnapped me this time?”

Mycroft pursed his lips, giving him a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I… simply wanted to ensure privacy in case of this,” Mycroft gestured between them with his left hand, before letting it drop to his side. “purge of sentiment. And—“ Mycroft took a deep breath and straightened his back. “to… offer recompense for the pain caused.”

Greg’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment. “Are you saying that you’re sorry?”

Mycroft didn’t respond, just looking down to the floor and his umbrella. “I…” The politician sighed softly and forced himself to look Greg square in the eyes. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Say sorry with a beer at the pub sometime.” The look of disgust that passed over Mycroft’s face made Greg smirk.

“There must be another way.”

Greg’s smirk grew wider into a full grin. “Nope—sounds like the perfect punishment to me. I’ll even let you tell me embarrassing stories about Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback, guys! I'm trying to feel out the Mystradian dynamic, I guess. I'm neither particularly good with romantic entanglements nor writing them, but I'm a closet romantic, so I love them. Point being, starting at the beginning to try and get a feel because jumping in when I don't know the dynamic is hard, as is getting the emotionality right. Mycroft seems a study in contradictions, and they're contradictions that interest me, so I like following the line of thought.
> 
> Also, I didn't feel too bad about the collar thing because it wouldn't hurt him, and Sherlock frigging almost broke Mycroft's arm at the start of HLV when he grabbed him by the arm like that. I have a strangely odd feeling based upon that reaction weird stuff happens to Mycroft because he brushed that off entirely too easily.


	8. So Help Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have to go over to Mycroft's house because he needs John to make a house-call according to Lestrade... why would Mycroft need John as his doctor?

Greg Lestrade led both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes up the stairs towards Mycroft’s bedroom. John carried a beat-up medical bag with him, and Sherlock had a sour look on his face. “He said that this has to be off the record.” Greg voice was low, and he didn’t glance back at the men following him as he led them up the stairs. “Hell, some assistant called me and told me that Mycroft was on his way over in a car—I think that the whole thing’s fishy, but Mycroft wouldn’t talk to me about it—or anything—the entire drive here.”

“Knowing my brother, he probably did it to himself to get out of some legwork.” The words themselves were snide, but Sherlock’s face was dark and irritable. He also ignored the whispered “Sherlock!” from John.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to think of the trouble he’d’ve had to...ah, fake this.” Lestrade shrugged. “Even if he _did,_ and I’m not saying he did, there’s no way this is just make-up.” Up a staircase, down a long hallway past the portraiture, and finally they were arriving at a rather plain door. It was slightly ajar, but not enough to see into the room Greg knocked once before pushing it open and leading Sherlock and John back into the bedroom

Mycroft was propped up against several plush pillows and a bolster on the right side of the bed, his head lolled back so that the left side of his face was hidden against a pillow. He was no longer wearing his usual suit jacket, waist coat, or shoes—the clothing was neatly folded over the back of a chair, while the shoes sat underneath it. The tie lay folded on seat of the chair, nestling the tie pin and sleeve garters. Apart from a split lip, nothing much seemed to be wrong.

“Oh, god, _John_! I _told_ you my brother is a wimp!”

“Hmm?” Mycroft stirred, lifting the head off his pillow to look towards the noise. “Sherlock, given your tendency to… squeal like a stuck pig, kindly desist calling me a… ‘wimp’.” Occasionally he paused to take a shallow breath.

Whatever Sherlock’s retort had been, it died on his lips when he saw the deepening black eye blooming behind Mycroft’s left eye. Reddish-purple mottling spread out across the eye, and there was a small cut over his eyebrow, lightly crusted over with dried blood. His right arm was cradled against his stomach.

Mycroft’s eyes opened enough to be able to look in the direction of Sherlock, though they didn’t look focused on anything at all. “Much as I would love to shame you, and say this to be your fault, it’s rather mine.”

“Oh, yes, _everything_ is your fault, brother dear.” Sherlock’s sneer didn’t have any venom. “Given your aversion to anything ‘legwork’, I don’t see how you would come to be in this… state.”

While John and Sherlock seemed to be mesmerized by the fact that Mycroft wasn’t invulnerable, Greg had made his way to the side of the bed and sat down by Mycroft’s socked feet. He gave Mycroft a small smile when his eyes slowly glanced to him when Greg gently placed a hand on an ankle.

Mycroft stayed focused on the hand gently massaging his foot as he started his explanation, almost watching Greg’s hand as if mesmerized by it. “A rather indelicate matter that caused… waves with several agencies—nothing too abnormal. It seems as though someone was…upset…at the embarrassment, however.”

He finally closed his eyes again, leaning his head back against the pillow before continuing. “I was requested to…interrogate a prisoner. It turned out their bonds had not been fastened properly. Needless to say, my… questions were unofficial and therefore unsupervised. It was… luck that they were more interested in escape… than my demise.”

“I hope they didn’t get away, Mycroft.” John moved away from Sherlock’s side to set his bag down next to the bed.

“Ah, no.” The politician gave him a mirthless smile.

“Well, that’s good at least. Now, where all does it hurt?” Mycroft peeled his right eye open, though it didn’t seem to completely focus on John as it flicked back down to look at Greg and then at Sherlock. Sherlock was fidgeting and starting to slowly pace.

“My head, of course. I believe some ribs are cracked. And I am not certain about whether something is broken in my hand, but I believe it was stomped.”

“For reference, Sherlock,” John didn’t look back at Sherlock as he opened his medical bag, but vaguely gestured up towards the bed. “This is how you’re _supposed to act_ as a patient—cooperative, and not a pain in my arse.” Sherlock just whistled innocently in response, speeding up his pacing a half-step.

“Is it alright if I help you remove your shirt?” John was in his ‘doctor-mode’ as he straightened and turned his attention to Mycroft.

Sherlock made a gagging sound, and John sighed. “Actually, Greg, if you could help him, I need to talk to Sherlock about something…outside a moment.”

Greg nodded, giving him a small smile in response. Mycroft moved his foot carefully out of his partner’s hand and shifted so as to give him space to scoot down the bed towards him.

Sherlock started to protest, but John had already grabbed him by the elbow and was already hauling him to the door. “ _Joooo-hn_ ,” Sherlock whined half-heartedly, glancing back at Greg for a moment with a wink. Some things needed to stay the same for everything to seem _normal_ —plus, dealing with Mycroft always made Sherlock want to be immature.

“Do you just enjoy acting like a three-year-old or are you really _that_ immature, Sherlock…” John turned on Sherlock the moment the heavy door had clicked closed.

“Petulance puts Mycroft at ease—then he can feel like he’s in charge like always.” Sherlock’s face was hard, but he gave John an impish grin. “Plus, there’s nothing more fun than pissing him off.”

“Sherlock, this is serious! He’s lucky he didn’t get his head bashed in!” John reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Whatever Mycroft may have been doing, leaving him defenseless with some… spook or something is wrong. This needs to be reported—those people are endangering lives with this petty shite. You don’t even seem surprised. Has this happened before?”

“Oh, once or twice—it’s Mycroft’s lot in life for being unpopular—indispensable, but not particularly well-liked. It’s probably the only reason he hasn’t ended up at the bottom of the Thames.”

“And you’re a matched set,” the doctor muttered.

Before they could continue the discussion, the door was opening and a shock of silver-grey hair poked through before Greg walked out. “I’ll keep Sherlock company. That way we’ll at least know he’s out of trouble.”

Sherlock had the decency to look indignant. “It was only once I knocked over the suit of armor!” Lestrade gave him a hard look. “Fine—twice. Unless, you count the time that the arm fell off—“

“While you two figure out how much Sherlock’s knocked over, I’ll go deal with Mycroft.”

“Let us know—“

“We should be there—“

Both Greg and Sherlock were trying to talk at the same time, and gave up when Sherlock glared at Greg and Greg just shrugged a shoulder in response.

“He’s a grown man, Sherlock. And I’m a doctor.”

“It’ll be fine, yeah?” Now Greg had a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and was starting to lead him away.

“Oh, yes, and we’ll have to hear him whinging about the indignity of convalescence until—.” John slammed the door behind him, and he ignored the ranting of his friend, though his shoulders remained tense.

As the doctor approached Mycroft, the frown on his face grew deeper. Several more reddish-purple bruises were starting to blossom on his chest and abdomen. Mycroft was still wearing his shirt, but it had been untucked and unbuttoned. John thought that the expression on Mycroft’s face was oddly calm for the situation. “Not the first time this has happened, then?”

“In an interrogation? No. These circumstances, yes.”

“And you’ve no oversight that keeps these kinds of things from happening? That’s rather stupid.” John held up a hand in front of Mycroft’s face. “Follow my finger.”

“Oversight is… rather difficult.” As John moved his finger in different directions around Mycroft’s face, the politician followed with his eyes.

John made a non-committal sound and fished a penlight out of his pocket. “Any dizziness, loss of consciousness?”

“I’d suspect so.” There was a hiss and immediate closing of eyes when it shone in his right eye. “I remember my head hitting the table and then waking up on the floor.” John waited for Mycroft to reopen his eyes before checking the left—the reaction was more abrupt and shaky, but took just a fraction of a second longer for him to close his eyes in response.

Tucking the pen light away, John was then feeling the crown of Mycroft’s head, and there was another hiss when he touched a growing lump partially hidden in his hair. “Looks like your head’s in one piece at least. Now, I’m going to listen to your lungs. Breathe as deeply as you can.” John turned away a moment to pull out his stethoscope from his bag.

After he’d fitted the earpieces, John put a gentle hand on his patient’s shoulder and pushed him sitting straighter so he could place the stethoscope on Mycroft’s back below his shoulders. “Deep breath in—out.” Stethoscope moved to another point on his back. “Again.” This happened twice more before John placed the stethoscope on his chest.

“In—hold it—out.” He seemed to listen for a few moments before letting go of the stethoscope head, so he could pull the earpieces out. John’s hands seemed to move of their own accord to wrap the stethoscope around his neck.

“Lungs and heart sound fine. Now, I’m going to need you to lie back—“

The door burst open, startling both doctor and patient.

“John! Stop! He’s got you under his –“ Sherlock clapped his hand over his eyes. “Mycroft, _ugh_. Button your shirt! My eyes! My eyes!”

And then suddenly, Sherlock was dragged out by Greg by the back of his collar, the door slamming shut with an echo of “March, Sherlock. Or so help me, I’ll…” before the voice of Lestrade trailed off.

John cleared his throat, still looking at the door. “Umm…lie back, please. I’ll need to check your ribs and abdomen.”

“Of course, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft favored his left side as he carefully scooted down enough so he lay flat on the bed. “Let me know when it hurts.” First John carefully palpated different places, checking the spleen and liver for any pain or enlargement. Neither were tender as Mycroft made no comment.

Next, John carefully pressed near one of the bruises, and Mycroft practically jumped off the bed with a shriek. John quickly poked a few other places before he turned back to his bag. He rummaged around before sighing to himself. “Feels like they’re cracked with some bad bruising.” John stood up as he turned back to Mycroft. “Do you need help sitting up?”

“No—“ The elder Holmes groaned as he tried to shimmy back to a reclining position. “Oh, ah—actually…”

“I’m a doctor, Mycroft,” John said, carefully moving his hands to help Mycroft slide back to a half-reclined position. “It’s my job, so don’t be embarrassed.”

Finally, the doctor carefully grasped Mycroft’s right shoulder and slowly straightened the arm so the upper arm was perpendicular to Mycroft’s body, and the lower bent back towards his chest, so he could examine it. “I’m going to check your hand—“

“I’m aware there’s a soft-tissue injury.” The politician’s eyes were closed again as he leaned his head back, and his shoulders were tense. “And I don’t need… ‘tender care’—just ensure that I’ll… still be able to use my hand.”

Even though Mycroft wasn’t looking, John put on his best ‘difficult patient’ long-suffering smile and carefully manipulated and prodded the hand. He’d prefer to have the ability to x-ray hand and check for a fracture, but he didn’t think that Mycroft would come into the surgery for one—given that he wanted the entire thing off the record.

“It doesn’t look like anything too awful, but keep it elevated and ice it. Uh—Greg’ll need to pop off and pick up some wrap. I don’t have enough to last as long as you’ll need it.” He let go of Mycroft’s forearm and unzipped the side of his bag, pulling out white, gauzy wrap and tape. Mycroft lifted his head to stare at the wrap in John’s hand, but didn’t say anything. As John wound the stretch-wrap slowly around the hand, John advised him about not wrapping too tightly, to use a sling, and not use the wrap to keep his ribs in place—too likely he could get pneumonia if he couldn’t take deep breaths.

Mycroft face was impassive and closed-off as his hand was wrapped, even though he was watching and nodding along with what John said, but his nostrils flared occasionally. When John finally set the hand back on top of the blanket, Mycroft cracked his right eye open and gave him a grim smile. “I’m further indebted to you, Doctor Watson… Thank you.”

“Just get well quickly, Mycroft. Sherlock’s going to be a right pain—“

“I can make a few calls and have him convalescing on the Continent, I imagine.” The politician cut John off before he could finish his thought. “There has to be _some_ local crime boss that… needs conviction.”

“Ah, no… not just now. Wait until I’m cross with him—then offer that. I could use a vacation.”

This time, Mycroft’s smile seemed genuine, if a bit tight. “I’ll keep that in mind for Christmas. It may be the only way we have peace this year.”

“Quite possibly.” John shook his head lightly. After Mycroft had laid his head back on the pillow, John picked his bag up off the bedroom floor. “I’m going to go tell Greg it’s safe to unleash Sherlock—try to get some sleep after Sherlock quits fussing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I am not a doctor... I just like studying medical stuff for fun. And according to my readings, it's not a problem to sleep with a concussion unless there's bleeding on the brain.) Also, indeterminate time in the future after everything has settled and life has moved on....
> 
> Hopefully the medical stuff was okay. I mean hopefully the whole thing was okay, but the medical stuff is hard to do. I swear I get a neuro exam every year because of my migraines, and I despise the whole 'light in the eyes', especially when I have a migraine at the time, so I tried to base John's check on that as it should hit the basics.
> 
> I've dealt with taking care of someone with cracked ribs before, and it's never fun for the person with them. My ex-boyfriend was in pain for months. I also, probably fudged some with the hand stuff, but I didn't want to misrepresent hand injuries as they're serious and painful. And apologies if you thought Mycroft was wimpy, was trying to balance. (If you want to see my thoughts, check my Tumblr. I tend to do stream-of-consciousness ranting.)
> 
> Sorry it took so long to get this up! Office was closed for Memorial Day, which meant the rest of the week sucked. In addition, I got pulled back onto a special project and spent entirely too much time doing writing for work... and when I work extra, I tend to work, sleep, and repeat.


	9. Just An Excuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's got dinner all ready, the wine is waiting, and the table is set. Yet, his date is a half hour late. Has he been stood up?

The roast was ready. The waiter’s key had been found beside the bathtub and washed—Greg had sighed in relief when he’d found it without his date having arrived. He must have left it there when he’d had that beer night after a grisly case he’d called Sherlock on. That night had been a hot bath, lot of cold beer, and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes when he’d gotten home—he’d only allowed himself the one pack, and then, back to patches he went. There was a quarter of a raspberry cheesecake from ‘Old Man’ Lawrence at his favorite coffee shop in the refrigerator. He’d even made a new quinoa dish – cinnamon sticks and cranberries. Though Lestrade would have preferred to pair the dinner with rolls, he didn’t want to upset the balance.

Only his date hadn’t arrived yet, and it was already a quarter past seven – Greg looked at the clock on the wall and sighed. He’d hoped that Mycroft would be on time so they could have a glass of wine before dinner. Pulling out his phone, he turned the screen on, but there were no new texts or calls.

He sat down heavily on his very nice, but lumpy, leather sofa, and hid his face in one of the ratty, old throw pillows. Another fifteen minutes and he’d put everything away and get out a beer and sulk in front of the television the rest of the night. The situation reminded him vaguely of his ex-wife, if only for a moment, and the ache in his chest intensified. ‘What if he isn’t—no, stay positive, Lestrade.’ Greg sighed again, pressing the pillow tighter against his face.

At first, Greg thought he’d imagined it because it was so faint, and he had remained on the couch through the quiet knock. But then it came again, the same steady beat. Greg just let the pillow fall to the floor as he bolted for the door, his heart all the way up in his throat. He almost hit himself in the head when he tried to open the door without unlocking it, but finally he had it unlocked and threw it open.

Greg’s jaw dropped in shock at the very dapper man standing in front of him. Mycroft stood impeccably dressed in a dark grey pinstripe suit, a crisp white shirt, and a wine-red, pin-spotted silk tie. There were several damp spots on his overcoat from the soft rain, and his umbrella was damp. His overcoat still smelled slightly of cigarette smoke. Mycroft cleared his throat after a moment of awkward silence. “Were you… expecting someone else?”

“No!” Greg said quickly. “I just wasn’t sure you’d come.” He took a step back to let Mycroft into the apartment, closing and locking the door before quickly pressing his forehead to the hard, wooden door for just a second to clear his head. For a moment, he was thinking of their last date, and how it had ended in the dark against the door with a few drunken kisses before Mycroft had begged off. “May I—err, take your coat?”

“Thank you.” After Mycroft had removed his black gloves and tucked them away in a pocket, Greg helped him remove the coat before taking it to his tiny closet by the door to hang. The umbrella was leaned against the sofa, carefully balanced so it wouldn’t fall over. Tension hung thickly in the air. “What’s for dinner, Gregory? It smells divine.”

“Roast beef and vegetables. John said that I should get a red to go with it.” The cheesecake was a surprise he hadn’t expected to get, so he didn’t mention it. Greg smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt unconsciously as he turned back to Mycroft, who stood awkwardly looking at the rather spartan apartment.

“Does John know _I_ am the one with whom you are sharing this meal?” Mycroft’s voice was low, but the apartment was quiet. Tuesday evenings weren’t crazy nights at his complex.

“Nope.” Greg’s eyes drifted up and down the figure of the other man as his back was turned. He had to remind himself that he was too old to whistle in appreciation. “Told him I had a hot date though.”

Mycroft looked back at him with raised eyebrows. “A… hot date. I’m rather starting to think you misjudged my intentions.”

For just a second, Greg thought his heart might stop. Then, he looked at Mycroft’s face, and it all made sense—a pinched look, overly formal, and always closed off from everyone. “Unless your intentions changed from last time, nope.”

Greg quickly walked to the adjoined kitchen before he had time to say anything stupid. Opening the cupboard just to the right of the refrigerator, Greg pulled out two large, hand-blown wine glasses that he had hidden away. His ex-wife had insisted on keeping them as a memento of their wedding, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to shatter them against a wall like he’d wanted to when they divorced. “Could you come open the wine while I pull out the roast?” He called out even as he moved the few steps across to the stove.

“Of course.”

Greg grabbed the potholders, and then he turned off the low oven before opening the door and carefully pulling out the roasting pan. He set the whole thing on top of the stove before closing the oven door. His mouth was watering before he’d even managed to lift the lid—potatoes, carrots, celery, onions, garlic, and a succulent roast.

“Did John tell you to buy this bottle?” Mycroft held up the open bottle a moment before setting it back on the counter to breathe, the cork on the counter and the foil apparently having been thrown away already.

“No. Sherlock texted me out of the blue after I’d asked John.” Another measured nod from Mycroft. Now Greg was starting to feel like _he_ was the one doing the deducing, and he grinned. “Is it bad?”

“No! I am quite fond of this vintner. German operation out of Palma de Mallorca.”

“Oh—good.” Greg took advantage of the small kitchen to ghost a hand over Mycroft’s back as he stepped around him to get back to the refrigerator, where he had the quinoa chilling. “I hope you like quinoa?”

“It’s fine.” Closing the refrigerator door, Greg held out, with both hands, the metal bowl to Mycroft.

“I’ll meet you at the table with the roast if you’ll take this out? Water’s on the table already.” Mycroft looked past Greg for a moment before taking the bowl, avoiding touching Greg’s hands as he did. Greg followed after a second with the roast pan, plunking it down on the waiting trivet. He went back to the kitchen to drop off one of the pot holders and bring out the wine and glasses. This way they wouldn’t have to get up for more wine later.

By the time that the police inspector had returned to the table, Mycroft was already seated, his hands folded primly on the table. Greg set the bottle of wine down first, and then one wine glass by Mycroft’s setting and the other by his own. He grinned a little when he’d noticed that Mycroft had lit the taper candles he had out– the candle holders had been from his mum. Picking up the carving knife and serving fork, Greg adeptly cutting slicing off a few pieces before setting aside the knife on a small, empty plate on his right. He then turned the handle of the serving fork out towards Mycroft. “First choice.”

Mycroft gave him a wry smile as he took the fork, and Greg took his seat. “Thank you—I didn’t know you cooked.”

“Mum taught me when I was stuck inside one Christmas with a broken leg—said it would come in handy.” Greg was piling vegetables onto his plate with the serving spoon he’d set next to the trivet when preparing the table earlier.

“Indeed.”

For a moment, Greg looked across the table to the politician through his eyelashes. Mycroft shook the serving fork ever-so-slightly so the roast beef fell to the plate, and then he speared another piece of meat so that the fork wouldn’t get lost in the pan before letting it go.  “’Ave you got something on your mind, Mycroft?”

“Ah,” Mycroft paused for a second before reaching for the quinoa bowl, the spoon already in the bowl for serving. Though his face was composed, his mouth was pinched and his voice slightly icy. “What makes you ask that?”

“You’re quiet when you’re nervous. It can’t be about Sherlock—John _promised_ he and Mary would keep ‘im out of trouble tonight. So, it had to be something else from before you got here, because neither of us has checked our phones.”

Narrowing of eyes, Mycroft reached a hand up to adjust his tie and collar. “What makes you think that _I_ would be nervous, Detective Inspector?”

“Because you weren’t a right prat the last time, Mycroft. I was starting to think we were enjoying each other’s company.”

The bowl of quinoa clanged a little when it was heavily set back down on the table. “It was you that… took on this entanglement, Gregory.” The tension in the air was thicker, as if something unsaid hung between them.

“I remember _you_ were the one that was attempting to negotiate terms of…what was it you said in the cab? ‘Carnal engagement’ or some rubbish like that. Said it was ‘rather enthralling’ before you all but said you had to go?” There was a light edge to the words, meant to be disarming. Instinctively, Mycroft was reaching for his water. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re regretting agreeing to these dates, aren’t you!” Mycroft seemed to be stunned into silence, his jaw tightening. “For god’s sake, we’ve known each other for years, Mycroft! I’m too old to beat around the bush, if you don’t really want to do this.” The clang from Greg pounding his fist onto the table seemed to break Mycroft out of whatever stupor he was in.

“It is not the association that I regret—it is the fact that the nature of my job prevents me from being able to maintain such without endangering your safety and security.” There was a shade to the grey of Mycroft’s eyes, murky and tumultuous.

“Are you _really_ using your job as an excuse?” Greg’s tone was inscrutable as he leaned back in his chair.

“No. It is simply an explanation.” This time, he reached for his glass of wine. The politician sipped carefully at it, noting the dryness of it just to give himself something else to think of.

“Familial ties are not something that one can completely remove without changing one’s identity, but personal ties are…” Mycroft trailed off a moment. “Superfluous relationships put people in unnecessary danger. Maintaining proper emotional distance allows for the continuance of favorable social relationships without the danger of reprisal.”

If Greg had been interrogating a suspect, he would have been thrilled. So much discomfited body language—Mycroft was off-balance. “Uh-huh. I’m hearing: ‘I’m afraid and making a lame excuse to get out of the whole thing because he’s just a goldfish-head’.” Greg shook his head, some of the tension in his shoulders dissipating, giving Mycroft a lopsided smile when the man finally looked at him. “Yeah—John told me what you and Sherlock call the rest of us.”

“I am _not_ afraid, Gregory.”

“Yeah, you are, love.” Mycroft’s eyes widened, and Greg felt his cheeks redden in response. It had just slipped out, but he could see that Mycroft’s ears were starting to turn red.

“Are we really going to argue like children?”

Jitters Greg could deal with—challenge always makes a prize more fun. Now, he just had to convince Mycroft it was worth a shot. “No—now taste the roast before it’s completely cold. It’s one of the few things I can cook without burning.” Mycroft gave him a look. “I never said my mum taught me to cook well!” Picking up his wine glass, Greg gave him a teasing grin before trying the wine. “Hey—This isn’t bad!”

When Mycroft snorted softly and rolled his eyes, Greg knew there was a heart beating beneath the icy exterior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My notes have all seemed to migrate to the end... This was supposed to be sweet, but keeping Mycroft in-character didn't make that particularly feasible. For a while, I was ready to rip my hair out because it was driving me nuts.
> 
> My thoughts are that this is somewhere after TAB--the relationship still new. Maybe we'll eventually get me to write something romantic... Also, I based this dinner on something easy that my aunt does when she visits because I couldn't come up with anything good that I thought Greg would actually know how to cook.
> 
> Thanks much to lavender_and_vanilla for putting up with me this weekend while I wrote this!
> 
> (Hopefully they stayed mostly in character. I spent too much time on Youtube watching Rupert Graves in clips of 'Maurice' to try and keep everything sensical in my head.)


	10. Took You Long Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg put in a movie for a nice, quiet Friday night, but the movie is soon forgotten.

The bourbon was good, and there was a movie on the television within a hidden cabinet mounted in the wall—the perfect picture of a quiet Friday night. However, instead of sitting exposed in the hall as he had been on his last movie night, Mycroft had sunk himself in the middle of a very comfortable couch. The bite of the alcohol was pleasant, and there was a hum in his veins. It was easier to enjoy the movie on the screen when he didn’t think about what all was going on, just let it flow over him like water. But, there was a competing feeling distracting him from the black and white movie on the screen—an arm was snaked around his waist, the fingers slowly caressing their way up his inner thigh. If he squirmed or shifted, the hand moved back to just resting on his leg. When he leaned forward to pick his tumbler up off the tray on the low table in front of them, the hand trailed teasingly back to his waist. It took all measure of control to not jerk away at the ticklish feeling.

He looked back at the screen, a coffin shown on the screen, several blooms and wreaths of flowers adorning the funeral. Without conscious thought, he sneered slightly at the bouquets on the screen. Such a waste of flowers, and a mockery of life even in black and white. There were only three people in attendance on screen, and he was lifting the tumbler back to his lips when his heart tightened a little in his chest. He sipped at the bourbon before setting the glass back on the tray and leaning back against the couch, shifting slightly closer to Greg next to him. Without thinking, he crossed his left leg so their knees were touching.

Mycroft’s voice was low. “How is your—“

“Ssssh – it’s getting interesting.” The whispered voice was stern, but the hand had moved back down to his hip. Mycroft turned his head enough to peak a glance at the other man as he tipped back the rest of his beer. Mycroft turned back to the television, where an ugly man in a raincoat was marching into the church.

The arm unwound itself from around Mycroft as Greg leaned across to set the empty bottle on the tray, never taking his eyes off the movie. Given that this movie had been Greg’s idea, Mycroft knew that he had seen it before. The politician himself had seen it several times, so he already knew what twists and turns that the movie would take. It didn’t escape Mycroft’s notice that instead of winding his arm back around Mycroft’s waist, Greg just laid his arm on the back of the couch. Only the tips of the rough fingers were barely brushing against the fabric of Mycroft’s white shirt. He wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, and the knot of his tie was slightly looser than normal.

Every time that Greg’s fingertips twitched and rustled the fabric ever-so-slightly, Mycroft’s breath hitched. Every movement—every touch—held meaning, and the alcohol just seemed to intensify the feeling of the hand on his shoulder and the heat thrumming through his veins. He found himself focused on the hand and his own reactions rather than the movie, so he shifted his gaze back onto the screen. A heavier hand clasped his shoulder, for a moment at least, when the man in the overcoat stabbed a pin into the dead man’s hand. However, it was the encouragement that Mycroft needed.

A hand darted out to rest on Greg’s knee, the hand at his shoulder twitching a little harder. Mycroft squeezed his hand in response. The movie continued on, but it wasn’t connecting anymore with Mycroft’s thoughts. The knee was warm, moving slightly under his hand when Greg bounced his foot for a second against the floor.

Finally, he moved his hand away, when a man on the screen started talking about the CIA, reaching again for his tumbler of bourbon. Smoothly, with a practiced hand, the politician knocked back the last of the amber liquid and set his glass back on the tray. He glanced again at the television but didn’t take much notice of the scene on it. Greg’s wrist leaned against his shoulder now, wrapping his hand around to lightly knead at the upper arm this time, when he rested back against the couch. He took a breath and concentrated on the warmth at the pit of his stomach. Somewhere behind the alcohol, there was a touch of anxiety lurking still.

Greg’s fingers trailed down the arm limply before withdrawing to the back of the couch as the other man again shifted, but this time Mycroft turned towards Greg. Brown eyes lazily swiveled from the screen to the other man’s face and gave him an easy smile. “Good movie, yeah?”

A low hum of agreement as a response. “I’ve seen it before, Gregory.” His voice was deeper than expected, just a touch of roughness under the smooth polish. They were close enough that Mycroft could see Greg’s pupils dilate a little at the sound of his name. However, the policeman didn’t respond overtly, rather he leaned further back into the couch, seeming to make himself comfortable as he shifted so he could sit with his legs further apart. He licked his lips as he pointedly looked back at the screen.

“Oi, watch this—aren’t these puppets hilarious?”

Mycroft barely spared the television a glance before raising his eyebrows at the puppets bashing each other over the head. He rolled his at the scene, but his voice was droll. “Oh, yes… barbarity is the _highest_ form of comedy.”

Greg’s smile widened, and Mycroft felt a light hand at the small of his back, lightly kneading again. There was the vaguest hint of a flush forming on the inspector’s bit of exposed collarbone and chest, and his head was tipped back, resting against the couch back even as he watched the movie through half-closed eyes.

All of the sudden, Mycroft’s heart was pounding in his throat, and he found himself pressed against Greg before he was aware of his own action. Greg’s lips were warm, slightly chapped but still soft against his own. The hand at the small of Mycroft’s back tightened, but other than that, Greg remained still. The heady rush of passion and desire was all the encouragement that Mycroft needed with the alcohol in his system. It was when Mycroft’s hand slid back against his neck that Greg pushed forward to deepen the kiss.

The hand against Greg’s neck pressed harder, pushing them closer together as the tastes of dark beer and smoky bourbon mixed. The pounding of Mycroft’s heart had faded, replaced by the sound of his heartbeat beating in his ears. When they pulled apart for a few heavy breaths, the politician felt the couch on his back as he looked up at Greg grinning above him. Greg leaned down while Mycroft was still processing how their positions had changed, his breath warm and ticklish against Mycroft’s ear. “Took you long enough,” was all the policeman said before nipping at the delicate skin at the juncture of jaw and neck before kissing back down the jawline with light, teasing kisses until he was pulled back in for a long kiss.

The movie continued playing on in the background, forgotten in the heat of the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I'm so embarrassed! I don't even know what to say except I tried!! I'm going to cower in a corner with my violin if anyone has any comments. Also, I thought 'Charade' was entirely appropriate to ignore, even though I love the movie.


	11. Wikipedia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why the bloody hell is Mycroft so pleased to be called ‘Wikipedia’ by Sherlock? Greg knows as he gave the pet name to him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As prompted by lavender_and_vanilla! (The summary is my rewording of her prompt to me.) Tell me if it's awful, I don't remember the last time I wrote anything sappy. I've taken liberties as all authors are want to do.

“What did you just call me?” Mycroft’s voice was soft but sharp as it echoed down the empty corridor in the basement of New Scotland Yard.

“Wikipedia.”

“Under what pretense have you come up with that…name?”

Greg just gave the doubtful looking man a sultry smile in response, only answering when Mycroft leveled a glare at him. “You just saved me two hours of waiting around while the coroner finished his report. Didn’t even need Sherlock’s legwork to solve this one once we had that info.”

The smile turned softer, and his voice grew fond as he continued in a lower voice. “The first thing that popped into my head was ‘he’s better than bloody Wikipedia’. It’s a compliment, love.”

It took only a second for Mycroft to sift through the explanation before his nose crinkled and he gave a small and genuinely pleased smile to the inspector. “Only coming from you, Gregory. Though, I rather like the implication of having one over Sherlock.”

Greg looked up and down the hallway before grabbing Mycroft by the lapel of his overcoat and dragging him close enough to kiss firmly on the lips. He had reports to finish, and Mycroft had a meeting, but _damn_ _it_ he wasn’t going to miss the only opportunity he’d had in a week. A few moments to themselves before the rush of the day continued.

He smiled into the kiss as a hand wound around his neck before pulling back. “You… uh,” it took a moment for him to continue. “Should come by more often. I’d get a lot more done.”

“We’ll…ah…have to pencil in an occasional meeting then. Though,” Mycroft’s eyes trailed pointedly down Greg’s form in the blink of an eye. “my office would be better for these.. _consultations_. No blinds, a good lock, and Anthea to keep away pests.

Greg leaned in for one more quick kiss and then turning away to walk down the empty corridor back towards the elevator. His head snuck back around the corner of the hallway leading away from the morgue and the supply closets. He had a cheeky grin on his face when he yelled, “Don’t forget—you owe me the good beer this time—not your posh stuff!”

Mycroft snorted and rolled his eyes, but it was good to be needed.


	12. Rotten Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is having a lovely holiday in the solitude of Mycroft's manor house. Right up until Mycroft comes back and spoils the peace!

Rain pattered softly against the window pane on the far side of the combined dining and living room. Fire crackled in the fireplace, the logs in the hearth occasionally popping and sputtering. Gregory Lestrade sat in one of the wing-back chairs in front of the fireplace, legs splayed out in front of him as he slouched in one of the chairs with a book. He was only wearing a t-shirt and baggy pajama pants, and his toes curled on the floor occasionally when he flexed his feet while turning a page.

Greg had told John to tell Sherlock that he was going to fish in Scotland for his vacation, making him unavailable for any antics Sherlock might have and to bother Dimmock in his stead. In reality, he’d hidden out at Mycroft’s manor house in the country for the duration.

Everything had gone as planned – no one but Mycroft knew he was there, and no one bothered him. Sally occasionally texted, and Dimmock left voicemails swearing about Sherlock, but no one knew he was actually _getting_ them. He turned his phone one once a day just to check for any emergencies, and that was it. Though he did enjoy the silly pictures of Sherlock and Rosie that John had sent. It was times like that he was proud of Sherlock.

So far, he week had been spent with Mycroft away on business, so he’d been able to spend the time just peacefully reading. He read historical fiction and adventure, mostly. There may have been a Dickens novel hidden amongst the pile as well. Just letting the world go on around him was the most amazing feeling in the world. No one _needed_ him – he didn’t have to deal with any murders or suicides – and he could spend three hours reading in a gigantic bathtub when he felt like it. He didn’t remember the last time his shoulder had felt so good after a long soak.

Mycroft had been required to take a later plane because the negotiations hadn’t gone as well as hoped, which meant that Greg wasn’t been expecting him home in the late afternoon as he sat in front of the fire. His glasses were starting to slide down his nose, but he was absorbed in the story enough that he just shifted so as to be able to keep reading in peace.

The main door slamming had been what startled him out of his reverie. Immediately, Greg dropped the book on his lap and ripped the glasses off his face, hiding them in the only place he could think of – behind the chair’s cushion.

He glanced towards the open doors to the large room, but no Mycroft was in sight yet. Breathing a sigh of relief, Greg tried to get comfortable again while looking casual.

However, after picking up the book again, he found the words were hard to read. So, he had to hold the book away to the point his arm was nearly stretched-out straight in front of him. He frowned as he squinted at the book, trying to remember where exactly he’d been on the page. Everything was slightly blurry and he wasn’t making out any words. By the time that Mycroft had entered the room and came to stand silently behind his chair, the inspector was rather distracted in the book.

“Good afternoon, Gregory.” The tone was low, and the words were precise though there was a bit of lilt to their vowels. As Greg tilted his head back against the chair to look up at Mycroft, Mycroft was already squinting a bit and tilting his head as he looked at the book as well. “I wasn’t aware that reading upside down was considered a skill.”

And Greg was immediately pulling the book back close to himself and turning it over. His eyes were squinting even harder to see the text now, his voice was tight. “Uh, course not. Just…trying to be more clever…like Sherlock.” He nodded as if to assure himself and closed the book before setting it on his lap. “So…are you late or early? I thought you were supposed to be back this morning.”

“Late—one would think that something as important as the good of a nation would be more… unifying.” Mycroft’s nose wrinkled a little as he looked down at Greg, his smile a bit distorted as he tries to suppress a yawn. “Now, are you going to put your glasses back on, or shall I have to find them for you? Your vacation is supposed to be…relaxing, not uncomfortable.”

“Why would you think I wear glasses, Mycroft? I’ll have you know, I have perfect vision!” There was a shrill undercurrent to Greg’s tone.

Mycroft looked down at him and gave a heavy sigh before he came around the chair and knelt in front of it. His hand was already stretched out to pull the glasses, by the corner sticking out of the back of the chair, when he knelt down.

They were thick rimmed, rather square lenses, but good quality reading glasses. “These obviously are not _mine_ , and given _you_ are my guest, and the only one who comes here, they have to be yours by process of elimination. In addition to the fact that your calendar had “eye doctor” on the Tuesday before last. Also, there was that rather embarrassing gaffe at the restaurant—“

“Don’t bring that up again, love.” There was just a hint of edge to Greg’s voice, more resignation than anger after having been caught out, and he snatched the dangling glasses from Mycroft’s hand. “Fine—I only wear them for reading though. So, they _don’t_ count.”

There was a droll timbre to Mycroft’s voice, and his ears turned a little red as his face softened. “I never said anything about ‘counting’.”

“They don’t make me _old_.” Greg’s knuckles pressed against the spine of the book as he frowned at it and the glasses.

This time, Mycroft inclined his head and raised his eyebrows. “Again, I never said anything about your age.”

“But Sherlock was asking about our—“ Then, Mycroft cut him off.

“Well, that should tell you everything. It’s best not to think too long on anything Sherlock asks of a personal nature.”

“You aren’t the one practically being outed by the great ‘Sherlock Holmes’—“

“Try Buckingham Palace—“ Mycroft covered another yawn with the back of his hand. “I believe that it’s still much too early to be awake…jet lag and all. Mayhap, if we spent the dying day in bed, then you wouldn’t feel like such an…” he paused, waggling his eyebrows before leaning in to whisper, “antiquated bulldog?”

Fondness and irritation seemed to be at war on Greg’s face as he shook his glasses at Mycroft. “Why I oughta—“

“Shag me senseless so as to… impress upon your virility and potency and… ensure our exhaustion so that my circadian rhythm is back in alignment more quickly?” The last half of his words was both said more quietly and in a rush.

Greg paused a moment. “We may be able to… reach an agreement if you keep talking like that, yeah. Though, I think they have books on talking dirty outside of… your posh-talk now.”

“So…you’ll wear the glasses as you ought?” Apart from a wicked grin, Mycroft seemed to ignore the barb.

“Not until _you_ quit calling me old, rotten bastard.” Greg set the glasses and then the book on the small table in between the chairs in front of the fireplace. “God, you’d think I _never_ had to argue in court before. I’m not an idiot love, even if I’m not as ‘clever’ as you.”

“Coming from the man that thought ‘sexstacy’ was a word…”

Greg leaned in and grabbed Mycroft’s chin before pressing a quick kiss on a vaguely stubbly cheek, rubbing his own cheek against it a moment. Then Greg kissed him before breathing out two words, both fondness and sarcasm almost dripping from the words themselves, “Rotten bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will take longer than preferred due to the nature of my job as well as the fact that I'm uber arguing with my parents. Should I say 'drama, drama, drama'?
> 
> Anywho, I'm like addicted to Tumblr now, and this is inspired by my thoughts that lavender_and_vanilla and I had about glasses and Greg and Mycroft. I've dubbed her my muse for a reason -- I've already got three more prompts on the back-40 waiting for more time to write.
> 
> As usual, let me know what you think. I'm starting to get how I feel they'd be dynamic-wise down, so I'm a bit more comfortable. (Also, keep your eyes peeled...there's some not-smut coming down the line loosely based off of the 'Wikipedia' short and lavender_and_vanilla's 'Fragile'. The things that get stuck in my head.... It'll probably get it's own "work" simply for the purpose of not mixing my normal one-shots.)
> 
> Also, I need to quit watching the Wikipedia scene from T6T.... it keeps giving me ideas. Wicked ideas. I also really like the words 'also', 'poignant', and probably a host of other words waaaay too much, at the moment.


	13. Due Recompense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Mystrade, head-canon for how Greg ended up at Baskerville, and setting the scene for how Mycroft and Greg's interactions would slowly shift as Greg's marriage crumbles around him.
> 
> Greg's at the end of a lovely holiday with the beach, the sun, and peace from Sherlock. Why the bloody hell is Sherlock's poncy brother calling him?

Greg was reclining on a towel on a beach in Barcelona, sunglasses slipped half-way down his nose as he reads a book. His skin has a healthy, bronze glow from the sun, contrasting nicely with the bright, unbuttoned green Hawaiian shirt. He’d taken to wearing it outside of the water simply because even with his wedding ring, there had been too many propositions. And even then, there were still offers and looks.

It took him a moment to notice the ringing of his mobile phone, though several people were looking at him due to the offending noise. The name showing on the little screen was ‘M. Holmes’, and he groaned in frustration. ‘Poncy little bastard—I’m on holiday. What’d Sherlock do _this time_?’ Greg thought as he rolled his eyes before pushing the green button.

“Lestrade.”

“Ah, Detective Inspector, I’m glad I—“

“Mr. Holmes, was ‘I’m on holiday, piss off’ too vague yesterday?”

“No, of course not, but—“

“Three seconds before I hang up on you again.”

“Sherlock broke into a secret military installation with my badge.”

Greg slid the bookmark back into the book before pushing the sunglasses back up his nose. He wouldn’t be going back to the book after hearing that. “And?”

“If I go down, he’ll dig his heels more firmly in, and cause more ruckus than necessary. He at least _accepts_ your presence.”

“I don’t work for _you_ , Mr. Hol—“

“I’ve told you to call me Mycroft, Inspector.”

“And I’ve—“ Greg took a breath before his temper got the best of him, again. “Anyway, Mycroft, I’m a copper, and I need to get back to that. My holiday’s over after today. Don’t you have _people_ to handle him?”

“Need I remind you—“ there was a huff through the phone when Greg tittered. “of Buckingham Palace. I have been… instructed to keep my little brother under better heel or quit involving him.”

“Oh,” Greg paused to think about that a moment. “That’d be bad. _Very_ bad. John and I’d be pulling him out of a crack den in a month.” Silence on the other end of the line was the response. “Fine…but you owe me. And you already bloody owe me!”

“Due recompense has already been credited to your account, and you’ve been granted another week and a half of holiday time with pay.”

“I’ll have to let my wife know not—“

“She never had plans to pick you up from the airport. She’s out in Cardiff with the ‘PE teacher’…as Sherlock says.”

“Mr.— _Mycroft_ , you and Sherlock need to keep your _deductions_ out of my personal life!”

“It’s just… unfortunate to see you squander time on… such an unworthy endeavor, Inspector.”

This time Lestrade’s answer was silence. He didn’t need anyone telling him how to handle the little time that he had to himself to think about what all had happened, especially not from the preternaturally insightful older brother of Sherlock. This was supposed to be his week to not have to deal with everything at home and just drink, relax, and occasionally think.

Mycroft finally cleared his throat, and the sound was tinny over the phone’s speaker. “I have arranged your return to England, posthaste. The front desk at your hotel will have the details and number for a driver.”

“I’m only doing this for Sherlock.”

“Thank you.”

The phone went silent, and when Greg looked down at the phone, he’d realized that he’d been hung up on. He laid back down on the towel for a moment, relishing the warm sand shifting underneath, before he grabbed his book and slid back into his black huarache sandals. At least he’d gotten to time to soak up the sun for him to remember at home in dreary rain until the next time he could manage a vacation.

And next time, he was leaving the phone at the hotel. Security be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T-9 days until I move out of my parents' basement again and in with my coworker. Praise be to the gods! We're both looking forward to being away from our respective families.
> 
> Thank tumblr for getting my head going with this head-canon bit while working on something rather dark and nasty. Playing with style as usual, though it's fun to get out of Mycroft's head for a while.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
